


Blood Writing

by KestrelShrike



Category: DRAG - Fandom, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ABELLAN, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelShrike/pseuds/KestrelShrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short piece about the first kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Writing

They talked long into the night, as they were wont to do. Their conversation had a natural flow to it, cyclical questions and answers. His speech came across as archaic to her ears, while the Inquisitor’s own vocal patterns sounded hopelessly casual to Abelas. Neither had said it out loud, but they began to live to hear each other, weave vowels and consonants, all the while learning more of each other and the very separate worlds they seemed to inhabit. Shiral did not shirk her Inquisition responsibilities, but a small part of her mind remained constantly focused on what Abelas might say to her next, to talking with only the expanse of sky above them, rather than enclosed by stone walls.  


“When Solas was still here, he told me something about the vallaslin,” she began, to break the silence that sprang up in a natural lull of conversation. Abelas understood and embraced these gaps in a way that normally felt comfortable. Tonight, however, her skin burned. Shiral didn’t want their talk to end, for them to go to their respective beds. She couldn’t have said why, but she needed to hear his voice, wanted to hear him weave a tale while she fell asleep on the grass.  


“He called them slave markings, and he offered to remove my own. I thought what Solas said made sense, but these tattoos are all I have left of my Clan. Was he right? Should I have had him take these from me?” Shiral touched Andruil’s markings on her face, lingering on the harsh tips like arrow points. She reached out her arm, as if to touch Abelas, before jerking it back hastily, remembering herself. What had gotten into her?  


The faintest smile appeared on Abelas’ face. His smiles were so rare that she could not help but to return it, though Shiral couldn’t pinpoint why it was so contagious.  


“I was so proud the day Mythal marked me. I was chosen.” Abelas had a rich voice that none the less had a softness to it, particularly when he spoke of his own past. There was the faintest trace of melancholy in it today, though he was not inherently emotional.  
“It was an honor, a service I went into willingly. I was not forced into it, in any sense. But once I was there, I admit my choices became… limited. You could say that they were nonexistent.” His smile began to fade, and just like that, Abelas was serious once again. Shiral tried to keep the smile in her mind. At the same time, she was aware that there was so much he was not saying. The story ran deeper than that, but coaxing it out of him without Abelas giving it of his free will seemed inappropriate.  


“It would be wrong of me to say that everyone chose their vallaslin with such enthusiasm, but Solas seems to have imparted many half-truths on you. His world view seems to be entirely black and white.” Shiral wanted to interject, but she could no longer find a reason to defend Solas.  
Abelas continued on. If he saw her momentary doubt, he gave no indication. “But that was the past. As you have shown me, the Dalish are different from the Elvhen. The way you receive your vallaslin is different. You meditate upon it, do you not? You have a choice.”  


This time, it was Abelas who raised his hand, and unlike Shiral, he did not pull back. Instead, his fingers skimmed the marked skin that curled above her cheekbone. The touch was so light as to be almost non existent, though Shiral suddenly gained a keen awareness of the environment that she didn’t entirely wish for. The grass was wet and cold beneath her, though the night air seemed to abruptly warm up by several degrees.  
His hand stayed on her face, only moving down to cup her chin slightly. She should have had something witty to say, but there was nothing. Her mind was a perfect blank.  


“You once told me that your friends call you Shrike. You bear the mark of Andruil. How fitting.” She still had nothing to contribute. It was like she was on the other end of a hunting bow. Why did she have no glib words to save her from this awkwardness she suddenly felt?  


“Some don’t appreciate fierceness. Perhaps I am too old, and tastes have evolved over the years.” And then his lips were on hers, a keen, insistent pressure that spoke of decades of need. Shiral couldn’t begin to understand, but her body had some idea.  


Though they had sat facing each other on the grace, Shiral leaned forward, lips returning Abelas’ increasing urgency, mouth slightly parted. Abruptly, Abelas broke away, leaving her sitting back, lips still tingling.  


“I am sorry,” he said, not meeting her eyes, “but I needed that.”


End file.
